


OF LOVE AND CLAY

by SILKCUT



Series: ɪɴꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱɪʟᴋᴄᴜᴛ [16]
Category: La piel que habito | The Skin I Live In (2011)
Genre: Character Study, Disassociation, Gen, Inscribed by SILKCUT, Other, Selkies, Trauma, Twitter Solo Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SILKCUT/pseuds/SILKCUT
Summary: “They can’t hurt us as long as we’re together, mi amor…” Vera promised Vicente as they blended in and out of each other akin to a schizophrenic breakdown. Still, it was what either required, for sanity is a greater undoing than madness itself. And thus to madness it was that they chose to go together.In two-thousand, one hundred and ninety days, this was the first time they actually felt some semblance of control again.
Relationships: Robert Ledgard/Vicente
Series: ɪɴꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱɪʟᴋᴄᴜᴛ [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132040
Comments: 5
Kudos: 1





	OF LOVE AND CLAY

* * *

**ﾒ**

Ｖｉｃｅｎｔｅ ／ Ｖｅｒａ

**ﾒ**

* * *

## Ｔｗｏ

## Ｔｈｏｕｓａｎｄ 

## Ｏｎｅ

## Ｈｕｎｄｒｅｄ 

## ａｎｄ

## Ｎｉｎｅｔｙ

##  **༻✧**

Vicente found a children’s book tucked between the crevices inside the closet. He had no idea if it had been purposely hidden from sight or simply forgotten by time, but it was better than nothing.  
  
He slithered out from the dark afterwards, still on his knees like a scavenging urchin, and found out soon enough that the book was tattered. It was even missing a cover. Sighing, he wiped away the cobwebs and dust and turned the pages next. The words were in English, accompanied by pictures.  
  
Vivid. Teeming in color.  
  
In spite of the gloomy weariness of his mind, Vicente smiled.  
  
The book smelled like mold yet it was fragrant too, like it had an identity.  
  
A realness.  
  
He closed the pages at once and held the book against his chest, as if embracing long-lost family.  
  
With no desire to dwell on his misery, Vicente now turned his attention to one of the cameras. This particular one was Robert’s window; it gave him access to observe his ‘Vera’, the same way David had spied on Bathsheba.  
  
Vicente stared into it now—through Vera’s doe brown eyes—and displayed a smile that was sweet and unassuming on this dead wife’s face. Vicente knew this was her best look. He studied Vera’s reflection so many times during idle afternoons and came up with certain expressions that he hoped could stir memories from his warden—his butcher.  
  
This was a face Robert was still in love with after all.  
  
Said surgeon wasn’t here today, though he did keep the footage recording. So he would see this eventually. (Fucker probably jerks off every night to it.)  
  
Picking himself off the polished floor, Vicente walked towards the scribbles on the walls to see how many books he’s finished by now. There’s a spot on here—somewhere on the uppermost left—where he etched the titles plus authors’ last names. A finger ran across them now as he recited the titles under his breath.  
  
The rest of the ink on the walls was mostly markings that tallied how much time has passed. It’s how he knew it’s currently Day 2077.  
  
He never minded the solitude before, but that was only until he later on understood the stinging disquiet that comes along with it.  
  
There was a time when it didn't use to be like that for Vicente though. His work as a tailor might demand long hours of utmost concentration and isolation, but that was fine. In a sense, sewing clothes was something of a solitary preoccupation, one he was very promising at.  
  
He didn't mind being surrounded by fabrics for weeks on end as he figures out the varying measurements of women's bodies. In fact, he enjoyed how the colors and designs come together as each seam was sewn. He certainly enjoyed imagining too how a woman would look like once she wore something he created himself. It made him tingly in contentment and pride.  
  
(In hindsight, maybe as a professional he almost understood—even admired—Robert's own craft as a plastic surgeon.)  
  
Nothing about these things had ever made him feel emasculated, mostly because his masculinity was hardly something he thought about actively, nor associated with his chosen field.  
  
Vicente was simply a heterosexual male who happened to be very skilled in sewing and designing women's dresses.  
  
To this day Vicente /is still/ a heterosexual male who loves women and wants to have sex with them.  
  
No amount of disquieting isolation will diminish that truth. Robert could trim away as much as he wants, but Vicente will not forget what he is. However, he knows that to ultimately win means he needs to play the long game. He needs to observe, to keep track of the smallest details where the devil is, and convince his own demon that he's embraced the role of the docile 'Vera'.

## ➷

Robert only visits him during Thursdays. It used to be more frequent than that, but Vicente supposed that the man’s work—which often makes him travel overseas—was still more important than his ongoing little science experiment at home. If Vicente cared, he would have been jealous.  
  
Maybe Vera could be. Yes, that can work. Vicente can pull that off.  
  
The tattered children’s book remained by the bed for a few more days before he at last picked it up. He had been in the middle of an engrossing paperback this week, because Marilia mercifully deposited a new reading material through the dumbwaiter. A crime noir, something he’s expressed interest in over the last five years.  
  
Five years. One thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days.  
  
And time kept moving forward, in evasive motions, accompanying delusion and rage. The seething of such emotions never culled Vicente; it was just concealed under thick ice, and his lack of protest is nothing more but a successful attempt at demureness. To pacify the captors.  
  
Soon enough Vicente needed a break from the novel, no matter how invested he was in uncovering its central mystery. Sometimes he would allow himself these little delayed gratifications so there are things to look forward to. That’s why he picked up the children’s book next, which he almost forgot was even there. Truly it was nothing special; just another piece of the universe he can only escape to for a certain period of time.  
  
But he’ll take it. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.  
  
His grasp of English got better during his imprisonment. That was the one silver lining Vicente was grateful for. The small pile of dictionaries in English, Italian and French with translations from Spanish was near his favorite sofa at all times. Today Vicente felt confident enough in reading this book without a crutch though. The grammar should be simple enough, since it’s for kids.  
  
Vicente traced a slender finger across the medium sized fonts and began to mutter the foreign words under his breath. He often had to do this so he can listen to himself speak in a voice that was no longer his. Robert made him take a concoction of pills which gradually changed his new body’s chemistry so that he would become more feminine.  
  
Hearing Vera’s wispy voice was a reminder that a debt still has to be paid.

  
  
“lσng αgσ, σn thє wíld scσttísh cσαst,” Vera droned, _“α físhєrmαn spєnt αll dαч αt sєα вut cαught σnlч α fєw smαll físh. níght вєgαn tσ fαll, αnd stíll thє físhєrmαn hαd σnlч α mєαgєr cαtch. sαdlч, hє rσwєd tσ shσrє αnd вєαchєd hís вσαt. αs hє wαlkєd αcrσss thє pєввlч shσrє tσwαrd hís cσttαgє, hє hєαrd thє αstσníshíng sσund σf síngíng vσícєs. hє turnєd αnd sαw, αs fєw pєσplє hαvє sєєn, sєvєrαl sєlkíє pєσplє plαчíng σnshσrє. quícklч hє mσvєd вαck tσwαrd thє вєαch, вut whєn thє sєlkíє pєσplє sαw hím, thєч slíppєd íntσ thє sєα αnd dísαppєαrєd вєnєαth thє dαrk wαvєs._  
  
_thє físhєrmαn cσuld nσt вєlíєvє hís єчєs. hє knєw fєw pєσplє єvєr sαw sєlkíєs. thєsє sєαl fσlk cαst αsídє thєír skíns nσw αnd thєn tσ cσmє σntσ shσrє ín humαn fσrm._  
  
_"í must'α вєєn drєαmín'," hє sαíd, αnd αgαín hє turnєd tσwαrd hís cσttαgє. вut thís tímє αs hє turnєd, hє cαught síght σf α sєαlskín lчíng σn α nєαrвч rσck. hє píckєd up thє skín αnd slung ít σvєr hís shσuldєr. "nσ σnє wíll вєlíєvє mє unlєss í shσw thєm thís," hє sαíd. hє αlsσ thσught hє míght єαrn α pєnnч σr twσ вч sєllíng thís αmαzíng fínd._  
  
_αs hє fσllσwєd thє pαth tσ hís cσttαgє, hє hєαrd sσmєσnє wαílíng вєhínd hím. whєn hє turnєd, hє sαw α вєαutíful чσung wσmαn sσввíng uncσntrσllαвlч._  
  
_"вєαutíful lαdч," sαíd thє físhєrmαn, "whч dσ чσu wєєp?"_  
  
_"kínd sír," thє lαdч rєplíєd thrσugh hєr tєαrs, "чσu hαvє mч sєαlskín. plєαsє gívє ít вαck, fσr í вєlσng tσ thє sєlkíє pєσplє, αnd í cαnnσt lívє ín thє wαtєr wíthσut mч skín."_  
  
_thє físhєrmαn hαd fαllєn ín lσvє αt fírst síght wíth thє wσmαn, αnd вєcαusє hє wαs чσung αnd hєαdstrσng, hє thσught hє must hαvє hєr, αnd wσuld nσt rєturn hєr sєαlskín. "cσmє wíth mє αnd вє mч wífє," hє sαíd. "í lσvє чσu, αnd wíthσut чσur sєαlskín чσu'll hαvє tσ lívє σn lαnd."_  
  
_"nσ, plєαsє, sír," críєd thє чσung wσmαn. "mч fσlk wíll вє wσrríєd αвσut mє, αnd í shαll nєvєr вє hαppч σn lαnd."_  
  
_вut thє чσung físhєrmαn wαs dєtєrmínєd tσ mαkє thís вєαutíful lαdч hís вrídє. "mч cσttαgє ís α cσzч plαcє, αnd í wíll kєєp чσu wαrm вч mч fírє αnd í'll fєєd чσu frєsh físh, αnd í prσmísє чσu wíll lívє α hαppч lífє σn lαnd."_  
  
_thє чσung wσmαn knєw shє cσuld dσ nσthíng, fσr thє físhєrmαn wαs dєtєrmínєd, αnd hє rєfusєd tσ rєturn hєr sєαlskín. αnd sσ, crчíng αnd síghíng, shє fσllσwєd hím hσmє tσ hís cσttαgє. thє físhєrmαn híd thє sєαlskín ín hís jєrsєч fσr mαnч dαчs αftєrwαrd, αfrαíd hís вєαutíful вrídє-tσ-вє wσuld slíp αwαч._

  
  
  
Vicente stopped reading without even realizing he had. Instead he just stared numbly at the images depicting the scene he’s stumbled in; with the Selkie tearfully begging the cruel fisherman to give back her skin. She was on her belly—a powerless, pitiful sight.  
  
Meanwhile, the man had his back almost turned away from her, and the sealskin was draped over his shoulder in coy temptation. This fucker’s face was drawn neutrally enough, with a half-smile that no child would really understand. But Vicente did—he felt the weight of its greed and entitlement. He’s glimpsed that in Robert in their interactions and even in himself when back in the day he would lust after some random pretty girl.  
  
“I don’t like this story,” he uttered, and Vera almost sounded contrite. He set the book aside and did his best from then on to forget it existed.  
  
  


## ➷

Vera was out there in the sun in her flowing summer dress. She stood out among the rose bushes whose thorns can’t even hurt her. The meadow seemed far away yet she strolled without haste towards it.  
  
Winds howled, carrying bird calls to greater distances, and she’d pause to listen to them every now and then. Perhaps she imagined taking flight with these birds. In the sky, freedom seemed more guaranteed.   
  
He dreamt about her more frequently now; this woman whose body he lives in and not the other way around anymore. And yet she and he weren’t the same; somehow, Vicente could tell she knew about his existence as much as he did hers.  
  
Her brown eyes of a different shape than his would often peer at him curiously while he lay on her lap, and he saw her with the canopy of leaves sewn above her head.  
  
Why was he on her lap anyway? They are of the same body after all, and yet there he was—overcome with the desire to reach for her face. It was her hands, however, that would frame his instead.  
  
The dainty fingers were warm, matched only by that sad smile. If tears prickled his eyes, she’d wipe them without question. When his chest threatens to cave with the weight of fear and longing, he could tell Vera felt the brunt of it more.  
  
He supposed when two people share the same terror, kinship blossoms. But they weren’t separate people, were they? Except—well, maybe they are.  
  
How else could he explain these feelings each time he looked at her reflection in the mirror and saw someone he wished with such fervent hope can be saved? Delusional psychosis, probably, but he’s no shrink.  
  
It was Day 2160, and Vicente was afraid that he’s falling in love with the woman he was being forced to become.  
  


‘αftєr α whílє, shє sєttlєd dσwn tσ lífє ín thє cσttαgє, αnd whєn hє sαw thαt shє wαs hαppíєr, hє stuffєd thє sєαlskín ínsídє α crєvícє ín thє chímnєч whєrє hє knєw shє wσuld nєvєr fínd ít.  
  
sσσn αftєrwαrd thєч mαrríєd, αnd αll ín αll thєч lєd α hαppч lífє, quíєt αnd pєαcєful. fσr mαnч чєαrs thєч lívєd tσgєthєr, αnd thє sєlkíє wσmαn lєαrnєd tσ lσvє hєr husвαnd, fσr hє hαd α kínd αnd gєnєrσus hєαrt. shє gαvє вírth tσ sєvєn chíldrєn, αnd hє wαs α gσσd fαthєr.   
  
sσmєtímєs, thσugh, thє chíldrєn wσuld fínd thєír mσthєr síttíng σn thє вєαch αnd gαzíng wístfullч σut αt thє sєα. "mσthєr," thє chíldrєn wσuld sαч, "whч dσ чσu lσσk sσ sαd?"   
  
shє wσuld shαkє hєr hєαd αnd kíss thєm αnd sαч, "чσu wσuld nσt undєrstαnd, chíldrєn. вut nєvєr mínd. í'vє símplч вєєn drєαmíng tσσ lσng."

## ➷

Vicente has only ever seen Robert Ledgard furious once, back when he learned about what happened to his daughter. Otherwise, he kept wearing that placid expression that belied his crazed ambitions and other horrific deep secrets.  
  
At the time, Vicente believed that his clandestine work of transforming the younger man to Vera was the heaviest of such secrets, until Marilia told him a story not even Robert knew.  
  
But that was much later on. Right now Vicente was discombobulated while he tried to pick up fabrics from the little work station he’s created inside the spacious room. The flesh-colored cotton suit that served as Vera’s prison uniform had been torn. Some man—a beast Vicente as himself never would have encountered—desecrated her body. What was once unblemished and carved to perfection now felt sore and hollow.  
  
Her thighs were pressed raw under the weight of such viciousness. The core in which her femininity Vicente had taken months to stretch and get acquainted with was scooped inch by inch through unwanted penetration. It was hard to deny that the foreign slick sensation in the folds was anything other than blood mixed with that man’s vile juices.  
  
The man who would later be revealed to him as Robert’s estranged brother.  
  
“Enough with that!” Robert used his free hand to snatch the fabrics from Vicente so he could throw them like confetti on the floor. His other hand still gripped the pistol and for a moment he looked as if he wanted to hit her with it. But they knew Vera’s face is far more precious than any uncut diamond, so the doctor instead grabbed Vicente by the elbow. Still seeing black spots in his vision, Vicente remained clutching the single cloth he was able to take as Robert dragged him to another room.  
  
“Stay here,” the doctor spoke in a hushed tone, but his eyes glinted with hatred (not for Vera or Vicente at least), “Marilia will take care of you.”  
  
There was nothing else for him but to do what he’s told. Vicente wiped the snot that gathered under Vera’s nose and tried to cover up the violence in their body for the time being. The cloth in his grasp has enough length that could be used to wrap around Vera’s pelvis and cradle her weeping quim.  
  
This was how Marilia found them. Vicente was angry yet uncertain on how to let out that frustration while tears spilled down Vera’s cheeks. Her fingers quivered against the hollowness between her thighs as she tried to protect what little semblance of humanity she had left.  
  
And so Marilia told her about Robert’s brother. And the pretty wife who cheated on him with that man. How she tried to run away with the bastard, how they crashed the car. How the wife—whose face Vera wore—was scarred and burned beyond recognition but Robert kept her alive anyway in hopes of making her whole again. She loathed him though, and so threw herself off a window, traumatizing their ten-year old daughter who saw it happen.  
  
The more Vicente listened to the tragedy of these people’s lives, the more he felt vindicated. He didn’t give a shit about Robert’s mirage of a marriage and his daughter’s insanity—nor the many motherly failings of this bitch Marilia; only that their choices have shaped this skin he lived in—this skin he wanted to leave behind but was instead learning to grow into.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Marilia wasn’t apologizing though, because she also added, “These things happened for a reason, and you were but a fly caught in the middle of it because misery is an infection like that. It spreads and doesn’t discriminate on who to latch on next.”  
  
Vera was huddled inside a thick blanket as she sat outside with the older woman, staring in blank resignation at the flames. Meanwhile, Robert was currently burning his dead brother, and the smolder of the fire was almost too beautiful to be true. As Vera savored the overpowering the stench of singed fat and flesh, it whet Vicente’s appetite for revenge.  


σnє dαч thє físhєrmαn αnd thє thrєє єldєst chíldrєn wєnt tσ sєα ín thєír вσαt. thє nєхt thrєє wєnt tσ thє víllαgє tσ вuч sσmє prσvísíσns. thє mσthєr αnd hєr чσungєst chíld wєrє lєft αt hσmє αlσnє.   
  
thє wσmαn lσσkєd σut thє wíndσw σf thє cσttαgє αnd sαw thє wαvєs crαshíng σnshσrє. fαr αwαч shє cσuld sєє, σn thє slíck, вlαck rσcks, thє sєαls plαчíng αnd вαrkíng αnd síngíng. shє síghєd dєєplч, αnd hєr чσungєst chíld sαíd, "mσthєr, чσu lσσk sσ sαd whєnєvєr чσu lσσk αt thє sєα."   
  
wíthσut thínkíng, thє wσmαn sαíd, "thαt's вєcαusє í wαs вσrn ín thє sєα, αnd thαt ís thє hσmє tσ whích í cαn nєvєr rєturn вєcαusє чσur fαthєr híd mч sєαlskín."   
  
nσw thє chíld, líkє αll chíldrєn ín scσtlαnd, hαd hєαrd tαlєs σf thє sєlkíє fσlk, αnd shє knєw ríght αwαч whαt hєr mσthєr wαs. αt σncє shє rαn tσ thє chímnєч αnd pullєd thє sєαlskín frσm íts hídíng plαcє.   
  
"whєn í wαs hєrє αlσnє wíth fαthєr σncє, hє tσσk thís frσm íts plαcє αnd stαrєd αt ít. í knєw ít must вє sσmєthíng spєcíαl, αnd nσw í knσw whαt ít ís."   
  
thє wσmαn єmвrαcєd thє sєαlskín, αnd thєn hєr chíld. "mч dαrlíng chíld, í'll αlwαчs lσvє чσu," shє sαíd, αnd thєn, clαspíng thє sєαlskín tσ hєr hєαrt, shє rαn tσwαrd thє sєα. thєrє, slíppíng íntσ hєr skín, shє dívєd íntσ ít.  
  
shє wαs nєvєr αgαín sєєn σnshσrє. 

## ➷

Sleep came like crashing waves on a shore, matching the restless beating of a heart that hadn’t felt this broken in a long time. Vicente only dreamed of Vera in snippets when this began almost six years ago, but now it was as if he was the thing of her imagination, nothing more but an old husk she inhabited when unconscious.  
  
When she came to the next morning she was in Robert’s bed. The cool silk sheets cocooned her in stasis, held back from sprouting, from bursting with new life. Alone, she slowly stirred the muscles in her joints to memory and function, like acquainting herself all over again to the person she never asked to become.  
  
“So soft,” she rose to sit and then spent time trailing her fingers around the torso, admiring the supple skin that clothed this artificial vessel no one would suspect was even phony. “So warm and truly ours.”  
  
Vera turned her head to kiss the ball of the shoulder, picturing Vicente behind her this entire time, attached to her like a withered exoskeleton that not even a surgeon as talented as Robert could ever hope to trim away for good.  
  
Her fingers traveled down the apex between her thighs next where all their vulnerabilities can be found. She gasped at how moist the passage welcomed her digits inside. It coated them with the juices from last night’s mayhem and claiming. Undeterred by the ugliness of that trauma, she further explored the folds as her breath hitched with the deliberate flicker of something almost alive. Her eyes fell shut at the sensation of Vicente slithering down her so he could appraise her for himself. His thicker fingers and expert tongue more than filled this chasm that has hollowed them out. Fairy tales of this sweet sorrow has been penned before, but none with such furious bold strokes, with the thumb pressing too hard on a clit that was more foreign than family to either of them.  
  
“They can’t hurt us as long as we’re together, mi amor…” Vera promised Vicente as they blended in and out of each other akin to a schizophrenic breakdown. Still, it was what either required, for sanity is a greater undoing than madness itself. And thus to madness it was that they chose to go together.  
  
In two-thousand, one hundred and ninety days, this was the first time they actually felt some semblance of control again.  
  
Vicente rested hence. Alas, he found repose. There were no more books he desired to live through, no more mediation as means of escape, no garments to cut apart and try to sew. Instead he will reside in the limbo next to the meadow in their dream as it remains out of reach, all while Vera lived on their behalf inside Robert’s house. For that didn’t feel like prison anymore but rather a mere rest stop.  
  
There’s a destination beyond its sickly beige walls that the two—as one—would trek. Bloody footprints on marble floors. Doors that only open, with no more latches to undo. A burst of sunlight! Dust-stained surfaces gleaming. Soft dead insects caught in a web abandoned by its spider. And Vera and Vicente leaving all the rest behind, as they don on an impressive dress of marigold shades and darker hues to beneath.  
  
Two people happy to inhabit the skin they mended, imperfected—and ultimately chosen.  


thσugh thє físhєrmαn míssєd hís wífє αnd thє chíldrєn míssєd thєír mσthєr,

thєч knєw shє wαs hαppч ín thє wσrld whєrє shє вєlσngєd, αnd hєr hαppínєss gαvє thєm α mєαsurє σf jσч.

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**[@OFLOVEANDCLAY](https://twitter.com/ofloveandclay) **

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